
^005 






c>(?06 



t>. 



'E 



\/ Price Sixpence 

ilv FRENCH'S ACTING EDITIONS 111 



Number : n 



B i | [=1E]E] F=1 E] 

The dusty PATH 

A Play in one Act 



BY 
WILFRED T. COLEBY 

Copyright 1915 by Samuel French, Ltd. 



NO BOQHa EXCHANQED 



LONDON 

SAMUEL FRENCH. Ltd., 

Publishers. 



NEW YORK \ 



SAMUEL FRENCH, 17 



Publisher 



7 2fc -SOUTHAMPTON STREET, ruBii.ner, a-. 

I STRAND. 28 WEST 38tb STREET. 1 1 1 



6,000 PLAYS. 20,000 RECITATIONS 

Send for Catalogue, Post Free. 

**THE GUIDE TO SELECTING PLAYS" is pubHsh«d 
eutirciy rented and brought up to date. Price ls« 



SCENERY. 



With • view to obviate, at far as possible, the great 
difficulty amateurs experience io obtaining scenery, we 
haTe endeaTonred to cope with the situation by providing 

Strong Lithographed Paper 

which can be easily mounted on canvas, and then framed 
on woodwork. As all amateurs will have discovered, the 
expense of hiring or buying painted canvas scenery is 
very considerable, but by printing large quantities we can 
sell outright at a rate comparing favourably with that 
■Bually charged for the HIRE of painted canvas scenery. 
Tlie prinaary object we have had in view has been to 
provide scenery which, by easy adjustment and additional 
sheets of lithographed paper, can be nsade to fit any 
roaaonabk sixe of stage. 



FRAMEWORK FOR THE 
INTERIOR SCENES. 

The framework of wood can be very easily constructed 
by any local carpenter. If any difficulty is experienced. 
we shall be glad to have the framework made and sent 
with the scene. In this case it would be very necessary for 
us to have at least a fortnight's notice. Any questions 
on the subject of our scenery will be gladly and promptly 
answered, and if the particulars of your stage — the 
height, the width, and depth, together with the position 
in which you require the doors, fireplace, or windows — 
are forwarded, we will submit you an estimate of the 
cost, either with or without framework. 



We do not send Scenery on Hire. 

FULLY ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE 
sent gratis on application. 

Turn to next page of coVer. 



THE DUSTY PATH 



/ 



THE DUSTY PATH 



A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



By 
WILFRED T. COLEBY ^ 



Copyright, 191 5, by Samuel French, Ltd. 



New York 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

Publisher 

28-30 WEST 38TH STREET 



/ 



J 



London 
SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 

26 Southampton Street 
STRAND 






MR. COLEBY'S ONE ACT PLAYS 

6d. each. 

THEIR POINT OF VIEW 
THE LIKES O' ME 
A BIT O' STUFF 
THE YOUNG NAPOLEON 
THE DUSTY PATH 
AUNT BESSIE 
THE TRUANTS. A Comedy in Three Acts. is. fief. 
In collaboration with Edward Knoblauch. 
THE HEADMASTER, A Comedy in Three Acts. is. net. 




JAN 18 1916 



cy 



&GI.D 42790 ^ 




Vf 



HE DUSTY PATH 



Produced under the du action of Mr. Cyril Maude at the 
Playhouse, London, on November lo, 191 2, with the follow- 
ing caste : — 

Kitty Scarcliffe .... Miss Athene Scyler. 

George Scarcliffe . , . Mr. Brian Egerion. 

Mrs. Posthurst .... Miss Helen Rous. 



The Fee for each and every representation of this play by 
Amateurs is One Guinea, payable in advance to — 

Messrs. Samuel French, Ltd., 

25, Southampton Street, 

Strand, London, 

or their authorized representatives. 

No performance may be given unless a written permission 
has first been obtained. 

All the costumes, wigs and properties used in the per- 
formance of plays contained in French's list may be hired or 
purchased reasonably from Messrs. Charles H. Fox, Ltd., 
27, Wellington St., Strand, London. 



THE DUSTY PATH 

{The scene is the nursery in the Rectory at Upper 
Trentpuddle, East Dorset. Kitty, a charming, 
mischievous-looking girl of 20, is busying herself 
about the room, airing some infants' garments ovey 
the tall guard which surrounds the fire. As thdr 
curtain goes up she goes across from the fireplace 
to the sofa on the other side of the room and picks up 
a two months' old baby, ivhich is wrapped in the 
usual miss of baby clothes, cashmere shawls, etcetera. 
She walks across the room with the baby.) 

Kitty (as she walks across the room talking to the 
baby in her arms). Did he want his momer. But 
your mother's here, you darling ; yes, mother's got 
you, you lamb — go to byes, then. (She puis the baby 
in the cot. Back c.) Go to byes, there's a big man. 
(She busies herself with the child's clothes.) Mother'^ 
here when he's hungry, the darlmg. (A voice is 
heard singing outside and George conies in singing 
some popuLir air. George is a charming, smari- 
looking young man of 22 or 23.) 

Kitty (turning sharply). Sh sh George ! 

He's asleep. 

George. Eh ? 

Kitty (sternly). Robert — is asleep. 

George. Well, o' course he's asleep. 

Kitty (stjridy). Then be quiet. (She goes and 
bends over the cot.) 

George. Nothing wakes him, Kitty. Yesterday, 



S THE DUSTY PATH. 

when Sally dropped the coal-scuttle he never turned 
a hair. 

, Kitty (coming from the cot swiftly to George anci 
taking him by the arm, and, speaking in a voice of in- 
tense excitement). George ! ! — He is 

George. What ? 

Kitty. He is sucking his thumb ! So you can 
just come and see for yourself. 

[She leads him to the cot. They both look for a moment 
at the baby.) 

(In a voice of intense pride.) 

Now I What d'you think of him ? 
: George (looking into her eyes and laughing). He's 
lovely, Kitty. He's a dream. 

Kitty (sternly). Well, what are you sniggering 
at, then ? 

(He looks into her eyes again for a moment laughing, 
then takes her face in both his hands and kisses her. ) 

George. You dearest little girl, I was only think- 
ing that it has happened before. 

Kitty. What has happened before? 

George. Why, other babies have been born before 
Robert. There was a baby born in London last 
week ; I saw an announcement of it in the paper. 
, Kitty. It's no use, George, you'll never draw me 
again. 

George (laughing). What ? 

Kitty. I shall never rise when you throw the fly 
oyer me again, never — and I'll tell you why (bursting 
Out) I'm much cleverer than you — I am much cleverer 
than any man who ever lived — 

[Coming up to him and poking her chin out at him.) 

Yes — if Hannibal, and Wellington and Napoleon 
and Shakespeare and Winston Churchill, if they'd 
all sat up all night together for years and years and 
thought and planned they couldn't, they couldn't 



THE DUSTY PATH. 9 

George (laughing and catching hold of Jier hands). 
They couldn't what ? 

Kitty {nodding her head at him triiimphanily): 
They couldn't have done what I've done — so there. 
{She turns away with a toss of the head.) 

George (smiling). You're not cross, Kitty ? 

Kitty. Oh, dear, no. You're better than most 
men. 

George. Am I ? 

Kitty. Yes. You do take rm interest in Robert ; 
nurse says so ; though, of course, you don't reahze 
in the least what I have done. 

George. Yes I do really. 

Kitty. No. It's impossible. Men may be very^ 
wonderful in all sorts of ways, but honestly they 
can't realize this — they can't understand it, so just 
try and be humble. 

George (laughing). Y^ou're as proud as a little 
peacock on a rail, aren't you ? 

Kitty. Yes, I am. I don't mind owning it.' 
Think, here am I, only just 20 — back in the old house 
— the old Rectory where I was born — with my oisn 
baby ; the most darling baby in the world — and^ 
oh ! George, there's only one thing. You remember 
what I so often used to wish for, when we were en- 
gaged ? 

George. What? 

Kitty. If only father were aUve, if only he could 
walk in at that door now. I couldn't- help thinking' 
of it, when I got that telegram from Aunt Cornelia 
to say she would be here this morning. 

George (starting visibly — his maimer changing). 
What ! 

Kitty. Didn't they show you Aunt Cornelia's 
wire ? She's . coming straight on here after she's 
landed at Southamption. 

George. To-day ! You said to-morrow ! 

Kitty. No, to-day — now. She'll be here directly, ; 
and you are to stop and see her, and be nice to her. • 



4o THE DUSTY PATH. 

(George gojs towards the door. She pulls him hack, 
comic business.) 

Kitty. George ! Where are you going ? 

George. I've got an appointment, rny dear. 

Kitty {holding him). Yes, you've got an appoint- 
inent here — now. You know, George, men really are 
selfish brutes. Here's Aunt Cornelia been away a 
whole year, lecturing in America, You know that 
she brought Ethel and me up, and you shall not bolt 
off and hurt her feelings by refusing to see her 
when 

George [sinking down in a chair and running his 
hands through his hair). Oh, good Lord. 

Kitty (very sharply). Don't be so idiotic You 
are to stop, and you are to be interested in Aunt 
Cornelia and her campaign against the tyranny of 
inan, and her book against the slavery of Christian 
dogma, and her feminism and her communism and all 
her " isms " and 

George (savagely). And her snobbery. 

Kitty. Rubbish ; we're most of us snobs one way 
or another. 

George (between his teeth). Not as she is. Why is 
she coming here at all — because it's on her way to 
Creech. You told nurse so yesterday. She's going 
to stay with the Duchess of Creech, so she wants to 
come and tell us all about it. 

Kitty. Well, why not ? 

George. Why not ? The Duchess of Creech ! 
Who spouts Sociahsm from a costermonger's barrow, 
in the East End, and your precious Aunt Cornelia who 
writes books against religion in order to toady her 
way into the Creech set. (Grinding his teeth.) By 
Jove ! 

Kitty. Don't be so silly, George. You ought 
to like it. It's all so truly British, and Aunt Corneha's 
a dear old thing really — it's only that she's got no 
sense of humour — and 



THE DUSTY PATH. U 

George (hotly). That's it ; that's all you want to 
see her for, to pull her leg over something or other. 
You know very well, Kitty, that you 

Kitty. It's no use. You won't get off by abus- 
ing me. You are to be here and you are to have read 
Aunt Cornelia's interview with the Daily Leader 
reporter the very moment she landed yesterday. 

[She picks up a paper from the table.) 

Listen. I'll read it to you and then you can talk to 
her about it. " Mrs. Posthurst and the futurism of 
the sex-ideal." That's what it's called, and this is 
what Aunt Cornelia says — so just try and take it in. 

[Reading jrom the paper.) 

" In some respects we English women are far behind 
even the squaws of the American Indians and the 
terrible, the appalling, the stupendous injury which 
two thousand years of a blind and tyrannous Christi- 
anity through its cunning priestcraft has wrought 
upon the position of women in England, is all the 
more tragic because " 

[As soon as Kitty begins to read this extract George, 
ajter first watching his opportunity, has stolen quietly 
out of the room on tiptoe.) 

Kitty [looking round and finding George gone). 
George — George ! 

[There is a sound from the cot ; best done by a grama- 
phone record of a baby crying. She rushes to it 
takes the child out.) 



Did they then — did they — did they — Oh, and he 
ims a big man to suck his thumb, he was — and his 
mother's got him yes, she has— his own clever mother 
— and it isn't every man of two months old that 
can suck his thumb — no it isn't — the darling. 



12 THE DUSTY PATH. 

(She puts the child back in the cot and begins preparing 
its bottle.) 

(Mrs. Posthurst canes in. Mrs. Posthurst is a 
tall, gaunt, hungry -looking woman, whose self-import- 
ance oozes from every pore in her skin. She ivears 
spectacles or pince-nez.) 

(Kitty does not notice her as she puts her head in at 
the door and then conies into the room.) 

Mrs. Posthurst. Catherine. 

(Kitty runs up to her and kisses her. Mrs. Posthurst 
pecks her cheek in a forbidding lijay.) 

Kitty {pleasantly). Well, Aunt Cornelia, aren't 
you glad to get back ? Why, you do look a rag. 

Mrs. Posthurst. I should have thought, Cather- 
ine, that after my absence of over a year in America 
you might possibly have come to meet me at the 
station. 

(Kitty's' manner changes ; her look implies that she is 
quite ready for a " scrape.") 

Kitty. I couldn't leave baby you see. 

Mrs. Posthurst. I beg your pardon. 

Kitty (speaking as if to a deaf person). I said I 
couldn't leave baby, Aunt Cornelia. 

Mrs. Posthurst. Whose baby ? 

Kitty (opening her eyes). What do you mean ? 

Mrs. Posthurst. I mean what I say. Whose 
baby are you in charge of ? 

Kitty. You were both written to and wired to, 
when my Robert was born. 

Mrs. Posthurst (utterly taken aback and starting 
vaguely first tou'ards the cot, then towards Kitty). Your 
— my dear child — your — good heavens — but — I — 
and how old is he ? It's a most extraordinary thing, 
but I never 

Kitty. Wait — Aunt Cornelia— the address— the 



THE DtTST Y PATH. 1 3 

American address you left for Ethel and myself, did 
you take any steps whatever to see that letters and 
telegrams were forwarded from that address to you, 
as you rushed from one place to another ? Did you 
now ? 

Mrs. Posthurst. I had no idea, Catherine, even 
that you were married. 

Kitty. That is no answer to my question. 
Weren't you much too absorbed in your lecturing 
and your campaign to give a thought either to Ethel 
or myself the whole time. 

Mrs. Posthurst. I had ni}^ work to do. 

Kitty [smiling). Of course you had. Never 
mind, come and look at him. {She takes heY to the 
cot.) Now. Isiit lie rather a darling ? 

(Kitty waits, evidently in hopes that the sight of the 
baby will arouse even in her Aunt some sort of 
enthusiasm.) 

Mrs. Posthurst (after inspecting the baby and then 
staring at Kitty). It is very curious, Catherine, but 
there is not the faintest resemblance to our family 
either in you or in your child. 

(This remark is taken by Kitty in a flash, as a final 
declaration of n'ar, and slie fully accepts it.) 

Kitty (picking up the child's feeding boiile). Thank 
God. 

Mrs. Posthurst (starting up). Catherine ! 

Kitty (smiling very sweetly). But, Aunt Cornelia, 
if it is a relief to me, why shouldn't I say so ? 

Mrs. Posthurst. If what is a relief ? 

Kitty (coming up to her aunt in the most loving 
manner a7id beginning to fondle her hand). Why, 
before Robert was born, it was a perpetual night- 
mare to me, that the likeness to 3'our family might be 
like the gout. I thought it might have skipped a 
generation in me only to visit itself with redoubled 
force upon my innocent child. 



14 THE DUSTY PATH. 

Mrs. Posthurst. If you are in one of your moods, 
I shall most certainly go straight on to Creech. 

Kitty (still retaining her aunt's hand, which she 
continues to fondle). But you know that whatever 
I say, you do love me the best of all 3/our nieces, don't 
you ? 

[A pause.) 

And it's this ring you're going to leave me in your 
will, don't forget — you promised — your grand- 
mother's ring, Ethel can have tJir.t one and that, 
but 

Mrs. Posthurst. I should have thought it might 
have sobered you to suddenly find yourself a m.other 
at the age of 20. 

Kitty. Suddenly ! I like that ! (In a hurst of 
intense pride.) And I wasn't, I wasn't 20 either, when 
Robert was born. There now, wasn't I clever. 
(Fondling her aunt.) Aunt Cor., lam your favourite 
niece, aren't I ? — not Ethel. Have you seen Ethel ? 
Did she come to meet you ? 

Mrs. Posthurst. No, I have not seen Ethel, but 
a letter from her was waiting for me at Liverpool. 
Catherine, why have you again been setting Ethel 
against me ? 

Kitty. I haven't. 

Mrs. Posthurst. Listen. Was it 3/ou, or was it 
not you, then, who persuaded your sister Ethel 
when you knew I was safely out of the way to come 
here to the Rectory to 3^our old home, back to all 
the associations of her childhood ; was that or was it 
not your doing ? 

Kitty. It was like this , the new Rector has gone 
abroad for his health, and he said he would let the 
rectory to us for a couple of months, so we took the 
chance. 

Mrs. Posthurst. We ! You mean " You." I 
put it to you. It was vou who thought of this, not 
Ethel. 



THE DUSTY PATH. tS- 

Kitty. Certainly I thought of it. 

Mrs. Postiiurst. And 3/ou consider j^ou are 
justified in bringing Ethel back here and persuading 
her to attend all the Easter services. You wait till 
I am gone, and then just as Ethel was really shaking 
off the superstitions of her childhood — just as she 
was really losing her belief in these old wives' fables 
— ^these monkish stories, these priestly dogmas, 
deliberately planned by a tyrant Church in order to 
keep Vv'oman for ever in a position of abject slavery 
to man ; at the very moment when Ethel, under my 
influence,' was cutting herself adrift from all this 
superstition, you bring her back here, for the sole 
purpose of riveting once more upon her neck the 
chains of all this preposterous servitude. 

Kitty (speaking very pleasantly as the busies 
herself -with the child's bottle). Religion you 
mean ? 

Mrs. Postiiurst. You know quite well what I 
mean. The whole scheme of the Christian priest- 
craft of whatever denomination is based upon this 
monstrous conspiracy to bind downVoman, body and 
soul, as the mere slave and chattel of man. You know 
that my life work is to combat this, and therefore 
you, from sheer perversity — it is nothing else, because 
you 3iTeyiof religious yourself — from sheer perversity, 
you try to set every one that you can against me — • 
it is just the same with George. 

Kitty. What utter rubbish. I haven't set George 
against 3'ou. 

Mrs. Posthurst. Yes, you have. You first 
became engaged to George because I suppose he is 
exactly the type of man of whom you know that I 
thoroughly disapprove. 

Kitty. What do you mean ? What type ? 

Mrs. Posthurst. He is an artist and a Bohemian ; 
he belongs to that class of people who pride them- 
selves in possessing what they call the artistic 
temperament. 



16 THE DUSTY PATH. 

Kitty. And because you object to the artistic 
temperament 

Mrs. Posthurst. I do not object to it in a real 
artist, but with George it is merely an excuse for 
being late for meals, or forgetting to button his waist- 
coat — and for you — even to be friends with a man like 
George — you, with your complete want of balance 
— your ignorance — your — — (Coming to Kitty and 
shaking her finger at her with tremendous impressive- 
ness.) Mark me, Catherine, sooner or later, as sure 
as I stand here, you will bitterly, bitterly regret 
having married yourself to George Scarcliffe. 

Kitty (smiling ivith an air of quiet triumph as she 
takes the baby out of the cot). Ah, but I haven't 
married George you see. 

Mrs. Posthurst (starting back as if she had been 
shot). What ! 

Kitty (in a pleasant, prattling voice as she busies 
herself at the cot). Didn't you know ? Why ! I 
wrote, and — but, of course, you didn't leave any ad- 
dress. (Moving busily about the roo?n.) No — after all, 
George and I didn't marry. It was rather funny, 
but it happened in this way. We were having such 
a gorgeous time while we were engaged, that we 
hated the idea of ending it by just marrying. You 
see, neither George nor I are very good. You know 
what I mean. We've neither of us got very high 
principles and all that sort of thing. (She takes the 
baby out of the cot and walks up and down with it.) 
Of course, if even one of us had been high principled, 
it would have been all right — but marriage between 
two people like George and myself — you can see, 
Aunt Cornelia, that it must have killed all the passion, 
the glamour, the romance that there was between us. 
You know what George always use to quote — that 
passage from — I forget where it comes from, but it's 
extraordinarily true. 

(Standing facing the audience and speaking impres- 
sively.) 



THE DUSTY PATH. 17 

" When once you are married," the writer says, 
" when once you are married, there is nothing left, 
not even suicide — but to be good — the path Hes 
straight and dusty to the grave." And then, in the 
same book, there is som.ething which always makes 
me think of your marriage. " To marry," the writer 
sa3^s, " to marry, is to domesticate the recording 
angel." 

{While Kitty lias been busy with her nursery duties 
and not noticing her aunt as she prattles on, Mrs. 
PosTHURST, after staring at her for some time, has 
sunk in a chair with her eyes closed and is breathing 
heavily, showing signs of serious heart trouble.) 

Mrs. Posthurst (gasping it out with difficulty). 
Catherine ! 
Kitty. Yes ! 

(Kitty regards her aunt with an air of pleasant inquiry 
for a moment, and then, after putting the baby back 
in its cot, comes to her.) 

(Briskly). Yes. What is it ? What's the matter ? 

Mrs. ■ Posthurst (with closed eyes). My salts 1 
In my little bag ! 

Kitty (getting her salts out of the bag, lohich Mrs. 
Posthurst has left on the table, and giving them to her 
and then speaking briskly and pleasantly). You got 
out of the carriage and walked up the hill, didn't you 
now, to save the horses? I told nurse that was 
what you w^ould do. It always makes your heart go. 
Wait a minute. I'll get you some brand}^ 

(Kitty goes to the cupboard, pours a little brandy into 
a wine glass and brings it to her aunt.) 

Mrs. Posthurst (after drinking the brandy and 
then staring at her niece for some tim^e as if unoMe to 
find words). Catherine — I — I — do not — understand 
you. Are you telling me that you the man George 



18 THE DUSTY PATH. 

Scarcliffe — are living here — amongst your late father's 
parishioners — in open — open — defiance of — of 

Kitty (with iremendGUs gusto). Of what ? (Strik- 
ing an attitude and holding forth as if on a platform.) 
In defiance of all those two thousand years of super- 
stition and slavery which the blind despotism of a 
tyrant Church through its cunning priestcraft and its 
iniquitous marriage laws has fastened upon the necks 
of us poor serfs of women 

Mrs. Posthurst [forgetting her heart and bursting 
out furiously). How dare you argue like that ? How 
dare you 

Kitty. I'm not arguing. I knew you'd get 
muddled if 5-ou hurried up the hill. But just think 
for a moment, Aunt Cornelia. 

(Kitty noiv picks up a red shawl from the table, and 
as she asks th.3 following question she folds the shawl 
carefully, facing the audience.) 

Why, if the Christian religion is all a myth, why 
should we girls of the present day bother to marry 
the man we happen to become fond of ? Why, Aunt 
Cornela ? Why ? 

Mrs. Postiiurst. Silence — you shameless — you 
abominable child 

Kitty. But I'm only wondering. Of course, I'm 
speaking of a girl like myself, who's independent as 
regards money, and who doesn't want to get into 
society as you do. I don't say for a moment she 
shotddn't marry the man of her choice, I don't mean 
that at all. But then there's no particular reason 
why she should, is there ? Come, now, the whole 
notion of one man sticking to one woman all through 
life, right alcng the dusty path to the bitter end, 
just as poor uncle Basil stuck to you ; it all comes 
from this Christian idea or ideal, or whatever you 
call it, and that you've destroyed with your book 
and your lectures, you dear, clever Aunt Cor. 



THE DUSTY PATH. 19 

Mrs. Postkurst (panting and snorting). Will 
you stop. 

Kitty. I'll stop. But all the same you really 
might answer, instead of puffing. Because it is a 
queer thing when you come to think of it, that you, 
who have altered the whole world with your book, 
that you, Aunt Cornelia, on a simple primitive ques- 
tion like marriage, should be miles behind — well — ■ 
even a poor, dear, old think like Abraham for instance. 
Mrs. Posthuest (hoping that at last she has got a 
chance). . Your ignorance is perfectly astounding, 
Catherine. Are you going to tell me that Abraham 
never married, 

Kitty. Of course he married v/hen he remem- 
bered about it. But he wasn't prejudiced enough to 
make an absolute rut': of it as you think people 
ought to. And as to Solomon, I don't say that he 
didn't marry, occasionally — on his birthday perhaps, 
or something like that — just to give the people a 
show, but I don't believe he ever made a hohhy of it. 
Aunt Corneha, as you insist that people should. Any- 
how, he couldn't possibly have married all of them., 
because he v/as a very busy man, and you must 
remember that the Jewish ceremony takes the 
whole day. (Decidedly.) No, you're miles behind 
both Abraham and Solomon. 

Mrs. Posthurst. I always said so, I said so 
from the beginning, from your earliest childhood, 
that you v/ould end in this way. 

Kitty. But I haven't ended; I've only just begun. 
Come, Aunt Cor., don't take refuge in ai3using me. 
Argue it out. If all Christian priestcraft is utterly 
pernicious as you say, if we are not to believe in it, 
or in its teacliing, how could the mere fact of some 
old gentleman in a white beard and a sort of nightshirt 
over his trousers, mumbling some words over two 
such hopelessly casual people as myself and George, 
in a place they call a church ; how could that make 
any real difference. 



20 THE DUSTY PATH. 

Mrs. Posthurst. Of course you know that there 
is such a thing as civil marriage. Of course 3'Ou know 
it. 

Kitty. The registrar ! That's glorious ! The 
registrar ! You've dethroned the poor old gentle- 
man in the nightshirt, in order to put another old 
gentleman in a frock coat and whiskers in his place. 
" These be thy gods, oh Israel ! " What a wonderful 
revolution ! 

Mrs. Posthurst [getting her bag and putting on her 
hat). I wash my hands of you. No doubt it is a 
satisfaction to you to think that you have ruined 
Ethel's life as well as your own. 

Kitty. Rubbish ! 

Mrs. Posthurst. Yes, you have. The Duchess of 
Creech had promised to present her this season — but 
now 

Kitty. Present her ! Who to ? Mr. Tom Mann ! 

Mrs. Posthurst (tear/idly). Catherine, your 
vanity has simply blotted you out. I honestly 
believe that just to get the better of me in argument 
you have done this thing, and destroyed yourself 
and brought into the world a nameless infant. 

Kitty {smiling). No, dear. He's called Robert. 

Mrs. Posthurst. You think you are clever, but 
you are, as a matter of fact, simply a very silly, idiotic, 
ignorant little girl. Do you really suppose that those 
who are spreading these new feminist doctrines over 
the world ; do you think that workers in the field 
such as the Duchess of Creech and myself ; do you 
imagine that we are going to make our own ordinary 
everyday lives square with our teaching ? 

Kitty. I should have thought that people would 
have practised what they preached, more or less. 
Yes. 

Mrs. Posthurst. Then you arc very foohsh and 
you know nothing of the age in which you live, or of 
the English character. Do not all the radical 
politicians, themselves the sons of dissenting ministers, 



THE DUSTY PATH. 21 

^end their own sons to Eton or Winchester, the 
hot-beds of monkish tradition ? 

Kitty. But why, why, do you people preach all 
this new stuff if you don't believe in it ? 

Mrs. Posthurst (stamping her foot). We do' 
beheve in it, as a means of concentrating the atten- 
tion of the world upon ourselves. 

Kitty (running to the window and leaning out and 
calling). Yes, yes, I'm coming. {Turning to her 
aunt.) Nurse says I'm to bring Robert into the 
garden. . 

(Kitty takes up the hahy and goes to the door. Just 
as she reaches it George comes in with a tjlegrani 
in his hand.) 

Kitty. George, where have you keen. You are 
to come and talk to Aunt Cornelia. (Pushing the 
reluctant George towards her aunt.) Should you 
know him, Aunt Cornelia, now he's shaved off his 
moustache ? 

George (holding out the telegram), Kitty, here \ 

Kitty. I'll be back in a second. 

(She pushes George towards Mrs. Posthurst once 
more and then runs out with the baby. Exit Kitty,) 

George (guiltily. Hating the interview and know- 
ing Mrs. Posthurst has seen him bolt off). How-de 
do ? So glad you got back all right. How did yer 
find America ? I suppose it's 

Mrs. Posthurst (staring at him with a glassy 
eyeball and at last puffing it out). You — you — you 
horrible, you abandoned renegrade^ — • 

George [utterly bewildered). Eh ? 

Mrs. Posthurst (her voice quivering with passion). 
My niece is simply an innocent and idiotic child. 
But you — you, with your art and your colour schemes, 
and your middle distance. I always distrusted you. 
Yes, 3^ou have led Catherine on step by step, ever 



22 THE DUSTY PATH. 

since that evening when you continued to discuss the 
deceptions of Chiaro-oscuro in her presence, though 
I kept frowning at you ; you have been dehberately 
working for this. Oh, yes, you knew well enough 
what you were about. 

George (shrugging his shoulders, utterly bewildered). 
I really don't know — what • 

Mrs, Posthurst. Oh, you don't know — you 
who have been to Eton and Exford, (Working her- 
self up to a white heat of passion.) But I shall write 
to the headmaster of Eton and the President of 
Trinity, both of whom are clergymen, and both of 
whom I know. I shall take care that everybody, 
t hat the whole world rings with your flagrant, your 
abominable 

(Kitty runs in greatly excited.) 

Kitty. Do you know wliat Robert's doing now, 
George ? He's biting his thumb. Biting it. 

George (utterly bewildered. In an undertone to 
Kitty). I say, what is it ? What's the matter with 
her ? 

Kitty (smiling at her aunt). You walked too fast 
up the hill, didn't you, you beloved Aunt Cor. ! 

George (to Kitty). Well, I must go. (Handing 
Kitty the telegram.) I've got to meet your extremely 
thaughtful and business-like husband at the station, 
Kitty. (Turning to Mrs. Posthurst.) Fm sorry to 
rush off, Mrs. Posthurst, but you know my brother 
Bill'as well as I do. He always does things in this 
sort of way. It's a trick parsons have. (Turning 
to Kitty.) Kitty, though my brother is your hus- 
band, I don't mind saying that I hope Robert won't 
grow up to be as casual as his charming father. 

(George goes out hurriedly.) 

(There is a pause. Ki^tv again busies herself with 
■ her -mtrwry duties.) 



THE DUSTY PATH. 23 

(IIrs. Posthurst stands watching her, breathing 
heavily. ) 

{The church bell begins to ring.) 

Kitty [looking up at her aunt coyly with a seraphic 
smile). You see, you dear thing, if you'd only left 
a proper address you'd have known, wouldn't j^ou ? 
You see I wrote and told you that I didn't think I 
had enough principle to marry George, and as Bill 
had been wanting to marry me for three years, and 
as he was a clergyman and simply chock full of 
principle and moral ballast and all that, I broke it 
•off with George and married Bill. 

(Running to her aunt and throwing her arms round her 
neck.) 

And oh. Aunt Cor., I'm so happy ! I am so happy ! 

(Mrs. Posthurst, after blowing her nose loudly several 
times and wiping her eyes, kisses Kitty fondly.) 

Mrs. Posthurst (tearjidly). You're a very wicked, 
cruel, heartless child ! 

Kitty. Oh, I know — I know. {Fondling and 
kissing her aunt). It's something inside me — some- 
thing lurking within. But I am your favourite 
niece, aren't I ? {Stroking her aunt's hand.) 

Mrs. Posthurst {tearfully). Yes dear. 

Kitty. And that's the ring you're going to leave 
me in your will, isn't it ? 

Mrs. Posthurst {tearfully). Yes, yes, darling, 

Kitty {very seriously). You see, Aunt Cor ., as I'm 
married to a clerg^inan, I must get a bit back ffer the 
gospel when I can. 

(Curtain.) 



fiutUr & Taaoer F,rQ(pe and Loodoa 



Continued from second page of coVer, 

SCENERY. 

Our stock of acenery consists of 

The Oak Chamber Set. 

This scene will be found suitable for the purpose of an 
ordinary interior in nearly all plays requiring a room 
which is not representing a drawing-room, kitchen, or a 
very poverty-stricken t3rpe of room. The kind of 
furniture used in it will naturally do much to indicate the 
status of the people inhabiting 

The Drawing-room Chamber. 

This scene has been prepared on exactly the same 
lines as the oak chamber, and with the same object in 
view — the increase in both height and width according 
to requirement. 

Both Large and Small Garden Scenes 
Both Large and Small Wood Scenes 

A Drop Scene 

Puffed Satin Paper for Proscenium 

Fireplaces 

HousC'-piece for Street Scene 

Interior Window and Interior Doors 

FULLY ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE 

8«at ttratis •■ appUcattoa t* SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd.. 3* 
Stfl<0«t, SCnMMl. Lciidoa ; or 28 We«t 38tli SCrMt. 
N«w York City, U.SA. 



The Latest Additions 

to 

French's Acting Edition 



2501 DEALING IN FUTURES. By Harold 

Brighouse . . . . . . . . Is. 

2.502 GRAFT. By Harold Brighouse . . .. la. 

2503 THE TRUANTS. By Wilfred T. Coleby Is. 

2504 WHAT HAPPENED TO JONES. By 

George Broadhurst . . . . . . Is. 

250s WHY SMITH LEFT HOME. By George 

Broadhurst , . . . . . . . Is. 

2506 ANN. By Lechmere Worrall .. ..Is. 

2507 PLAYGOERS. By Arthur W. Pinero . . 6d. 

2508 NOCTURNE. By Anthony Wharton . . 6d. 

2509 13, SIMON STREET. By Anthony 

Wharton 6d. 

2510 ELIZA COMES TO STAY. By H. V. 

Esmond . . . . . . . . . . la, 

251 1 THE SON AND HEIR. By Gladys 

Unger la. 

2512 THE CAP AND BELLS. By Robert 

Vansittart . . . . . . . . la, 

2513 THE HEADMASTER. By Edward 

Knoblauch and W. Coleby , , . . Is, 

2514 BEFORE BREAKFAST. By Ghita 

Sowerby . . . . . . . . . . 6d. 

2515 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! By Camp- 

bell Todd la. 

2516 SELF-SUPPORTING. By Margaret 

Young 6d. 

2517 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. ByC.B. 

Fernald . . . . . . . . . . Is. 

2518 A LITTLE ADDRESS. By Margaret 

Young . . . . . . . . . . 6d. 

2519 THE LIARS. By Henry Arthur Jones Is. 

2520 JUST TO GET MARRIED. By Cicely 

Hamilton.. .. .. .. ..la. 



The published prices are net 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 643 992 5 



